


It's Only Half Past the Point of Oblivion

by Joy_in_the_House



Series: One Foot Wrong, and I'm Going to Fall [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Falling from Heights, Gen, Held at Gunpoint, Hostage Situations, Pain, Whumptober 2019, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:37:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joy_in_the_House/pseuds/Joy_in_the_House
Summary: Wilson never thought it would end like this. But it didn't.He never thought he would suffer for House's sins.





	It's Only Half Past the Point of Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober Prompts #s 4, 5, 12, 29 "Human Shield, Gunpoint, 'Don't Move', Numb"

The rare day at the hospital where it was – God forbid someone say it – quiet, was always a suspicious day.

The hospital was always bustling, no matter what time of day or night.

Late October was no different.

Wilson finished the discharge chart before handing it to the nurse with a smile. He turned back to the emergency waiting room and surveyed the people before moving back behind the nursing station. He sat down and began to review the charts that were piling up.

“Dr. Wilson, hi!”

He looked up to see Cameron smiling at him from across the desk.

“Dr. Cameron, may I be the first to congratulate you,” he smiled back at her.

She blushed, ducking her head.

“It’s nothing,” she told him.

He grinned and shook his head, brandishing a chart like a club.

“You were awarded Staff of the Year, Cameron, that’s nothing to scoff at,” he told the younger doctor with affection.

She looked at him, a genuine smile on her face this time.

“Thanks, Dr. Wilson. And thanks for covering my night shift, I hate ducking out, but I have to get to Atlanta.”

He cut her off with a wave.

“I’m happy to, Cameron, really.”

“But it was your day off tomorrow,” she frowned at him, eyebrow scrunched, and Wilson shook his head.

“I don’t mind,” he said softly and she cracked a smile. As she walked behind his chair, she reached down and hugged him around the neck.

“Thank you,” she huffed, and Wilson patted her arm gently.

As she turned to walk away, he looked up.

“Allison.”

The use of her first name threw her, and she turned to look at him.

“Kick ass,” was all he said, and she grinned back before waving.

He turned back to the chart and yawned. 11:30, it would be a long night.

12:30. Two cases of flu, in and out.

1:30.

He picked up the coffee by his side and took a sip of the cold liquid. He tossed it into the trash under the desk and turned back to the chart.

“Dr. Wilson, bay three,” Nadine ran past, gloves already on.

He stood up and donned his gloves, moving around the curtain as he read the chart.

“Mr. Roman,” he greeted, eyes on the chart. “How can I help you today?”

The man in question seemed uncomfortable.

“I want her out,” he said, pointing at Nadine.

Wilson considered it before nodding at Nadine.

As she left, the man continued to peer out the door until Wilson pulled the curtain shut again.

Roman stood up and belted Wilson across the face.

Wilson staggered back, bumping into the wall as he brought up a hand to touch his stinging cheek.

He opened his mouth to yell for security, but Roman beat him to the punch.

Wilson hit the floor as Roman kicked in the back of his knee.

Without any better idea, Wilson’s hands came to the back of his head.

“You yell, you and everyone else here, you’re dead,” he heard Roman’s voice like through a tunnel.

He was roughly hauled off the floor and pushed into the hallway, stumbling with Roman’s arm around his neck.

“Wilson!”

He turned as far as the arm would allow, catching Cuddy in his peripheral vision. He smiled, hoping she could see, that she’d know he was alright for the moment.

He heard Cuddy on the phone with security, but he was focused on the click that came from the gun at his head.

He shut his eyes and wished he could take a full breath in without it hitching.

He heard Roman yelling at the people to not come any closer, that he would die. _Who’s he? _

Wilson mentally kicked himself when he realized Roman meant _him._

“Wilson, are you okay?” he could hear Cuddy yelling.

He was fine. Trapped, held at gunpoint and being used as a human shield not withstanding, he was fine.

He was tearing through filing cabinets in his mind, trying to figure out who this man was and what his problem was. He wished he could remember. Former patient? Former patient family member? Was Wilson the target or was he simply the pawn?

Wilson was shoved forwards, and his already weak ankle betrayed him, sending him to the floor in protest. He felt it roll and felt the bones shift, and he landed hard on the floor, winded.

He looked up at Roman, who used the gun to whip him across the face.

Thrown back, he grunted as he felt the cut over his eye begin to drip. He put up a hand to check, and it came away stained with blood. He was left no time to think before he was pulled up and shoved forwards again.

The blood dripped into his eye, and he hissed as the liquid seemed to burn him. His eyes shut, watering almost instantly, and even against his better judgement he clawed at his eyes, trying to flush out what he could with his sleeve.

The hard prod at his back interrupted him, and he found himself at the stairs.

“Go,” huffed Roman with a shove.

Wilson took a shaky breath and lifted his foot, feeling sick as he put his probably swollen foot down on the stairs, and he used the railing to pull himself up.

“We don’t have time for this,” the other man growled and bounded up the stairs, yanking Wilson by his collar.

He generously allowed Wilson a moment at the top of the staircase to catch his breath before hauling him to the second-floor balcony overlooking the lobby.

Wilson heard the bustling below them come to a slow stop, and he chanced a look.

Roman stared at the people below them before he grinned, just once, a feral thing.

Wilson felt himself be shoved halfway over the railing, and he began to lash out. He struggled against the hand holding his head over the rail, feeling the blood rush to his head in one dizzy, sickening moment.

He caught a glimpse of the floor before he screwed his eyes shut.

Roman pushed him farther over, and Wilson felt himself dangling by his belt and the hand he latched around the railing.

He heard Cuddy shrieking for security to close in, heard House’s team’s varying yells of horror, heard House’s insults rising above the rest.

All this was drowned out by the blood thundering in his eyes, and he felt sick and dizzy and hot as he dangled upside down.

Roman gave one cruel jerk and shouted out over the noise, “If someone shoots me, he falls. So think twice.”

Wilson forced himself to open his eyes and he anxiously searched the upside-down faces to find House waving to Roman, trying to yell something.

“I’m the one you wanted, let him go,” he thought he heard House say.

Roman laughed.

“Nothing phases you, o great and mighty House,” he mocked cruelly. He shrugged, face conflicted as he looked at the man he held, dangling over his death.

Wilson focused on dragging a breath in, then exhaling slowly, trying to keep himself from vomiting.

Roman stared at the police at the door, and at security coming closer before he smirked.

“Fine, I’ll cooperate. But no shooting,” he commanded, and Wilson had one faint glimmer of hope.

The message was never received by the young beat cop with the itchy trigger finger.

Whether it was an accident, or stupid heroism, he wasn’t sure.

But the bullet hit Roman in the head, and thus, triggering the dead man’s switch that held Wilson’s life in the balance. Roman’s body dropped like dead weight to the floor as the police stormed the room.

And all Wilson heard as he dropped from the height was House screaming his name.

He felt the sickening thud before he felt the white-hot crushing compaction of his back. He blinked.

Each breath was hindered by an invisible weight on his chest, and there were too many things.

Too many sounds.

Too many colours, people.

Too many feelings.

Each breath felt like someone had pricked each and every nerve with a pin.

“Wilson, I’m here,” he heard.

His eyes flickered open – when did he close them? – and he could see House above him before he disappeared.

Wilson’s head lolled as he tried to find him, and House’s face swam into view once more, face panicked.

“Don’t move!” House told him urgently, hands going on either side of his face to keep him steady. Wilson stared at him. He couldn’t understand why House was so frantic.

“Wilson, no. You need to not move.”

Why?

“Wilson, come on now, it’s okay.”

He couldn’t move. It didn’t seem okay to him.

“Wilson, it’s okay.”

Taub came into view.

“Chase, get the c-collar on, Foreman, get that gauze on that head wound.”

Wilson stared up at the man in front of him. He couldn’t think.

He needed to find House.

He couldn’t move.

He needed to find House.

He tried to get up, but was held steady.

“Can’t move,” he whimpered.

Everything just hurt.

He wanted nothing more than to black out and feel nothing.

Everyone had always told him that when the pain gets too great, you would pass out; the body’s way of shielding you from the pain.

And yet he didn’t. He still felt each excruciating moment until someone had enough pity on him and sedated him.

And as he went under the welcome effects of the drug, his last thought was wondering how this had happened.

When his eyes flickered open, he saw nothing but blinding light.

There was a flutter of activity beside him, and he saw House staring at him.

“How do you feel?” were House’s first words.

“Like hell,” Wilson croaked, his throat sore.

House nodded before raising the head of the bed.

“I brought ice chips.”

Wilson nodded wearily.

As House lifted him to a sitting position, Wilson frowned.

“House,” he whispered, reaching for the other man’s arm in a panic.

House looked at him, face stony, and Wilson _knew._

But he said it anyway.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will most certainly write a second part to this. I want more on this angle that I really didn't think about before. Does anybody else want me to write the second part? It won't fit into Whumptober, but I'll do it on the side.
> 
> Edit: Bonus points if you know the song the title is from.


End file.
